


That's What You Are

by Fraija



Category: Boston Legal
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:21:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fraija/pseuds/Fraija
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melvin Palmer gets into Alan Shore's head and under his skin like he has always done, but Alan grows to like it. Melvin Palmer/Alan Shore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's What You Are

Alan doesn't drink alone. He may need to stoop to ever more desperate levels to get that company, but he spends his evenings in bars with older women, skin going papery around the creases. They have eyes as sad as his and very little personality, just sad, sultry remarks that lead to sad, lingering, dignified sex. Alan wonders where the fun went from his life. The booming laughter from the other end of the bar causes him to crease his brow, slightly pertubed.

A cheerful booming voice comes from the other end of the bar, a rich southern twang.

"Al! Hey, Todd, did you ever meet my buddy Al! He's a hoot, that's what he is!"

Alan feels his eyes show the full level of disdain, disappointment and nausea inspired by Melvin Palmer. He stands there larger than life, a rugged tanned face, blue eyes and a shit eating grin. It wouldn't be so infuriating but Palmer's so obviously delighted to see him. Palmer keeps his chunky, unreasonably rough hand pointing towards his companion. Alan arranged his face into what he hoped was a polite, amused puzzlement.

"A pleasure." he says insincerely, shaking hands with the unremarkable man. If Alan had time for ordinary people, he would have feel bad about slighting the man to tick off Melvin Palmer.

"We were just going to go get dinner when I said, Todd, that's my buddy Al, that's who that is! You've got to meet him, he's a hoot, you'll have a blast! Todd here's a huge fan of your cases."

Alan might not ordinarily have taken so long to put everything together, but it takes a moment. The hands resting intimately on the small of backs, the light touches to shoulders, the way that a brief glance could become a basking look. It was so at odds with the pure Texas of the rest of his image that it tickles Alan to a chuckle.

"Well, I do always enjoy talking with Palmer. I do always find him..." a small pause to allow the many possibilities roll over his tongue like a particularly tannic red wine, " a hoot."

Alan followes it up with a dead eyed, watery smile. Todd looks uncomfortable. He looks to Palmer for reassurance, and shifts away awkwardly when he sees an equally dead eyed but slightly more steely smile on his face. Palmer reaches out and laces his hand with Todd's; it makes them a comfortable sort of fortress. It occurrs to Alan to wonder where the lady he'd been sharing drinks with was. She seems to be sucking the drink through the straw as fast as she can. Perhaps it would be possible to save the evening if he acts fast, but his hackles are raised now. He raises his eyebrows challengingly. Palmer gives a soft chuckle. Alan sees the warning in his eyes. He isn't sure why it makes him feel a little bit cold somewhere at the base of his spine.

"I sure am glad you appreciate my company; it's such a fine thing when a man has buddies like you. Always so friendly and courteous, that's what you are!"

He seems to be spitting a little. Alan is strangely satisfied he's managed to land a blow, whilst also feeling a little bad for the guy who was trying desperately to get himself somewhere else. Alan swirls his drink and tried to look pained and thoughtful. He looks up, tilting his head a little and speaking as though he was finally deciding to tear aside the curtains of artifice.

"Why did you come to talk to me, Palmer?" He speaks the name like the cracking of old paper, -a dry, weary, slightly sad speech. "You have to know that I don't like you, that I hold you in nothing but contempt and..."

It's Todd that actually cuts him off, turning decisively towards Palmer, resting a hand on his chest and looking at him with a clear sort of disappointment.

"Come on. Like the man says, why talk to him?"

There's a moment. Alan wonders what they're saying to eachother without words. He can see a dreadful openness for a moment; Palmer's relaxed jaw, his cheeks drooping from their usual rosy apples. The man's hand falls slowly from Palmer's chest and Alan realises he's been staring. He tries to look politely curious. The lines in Palmer's face disappear as the huge, larger than life beam is pushed back into place.

"Well, it's been a pleasure as always, Al. You're definitely a hoot. Say hi to Denny for me, and that other fellow, the one who purrs? He's a hoot, that's what he is!"

He clocks Alan with a casual salute and leaves with the same swagger he always walks with. Alan needs more to drink. The woman is gone, but he can't find it in himself to care. He sits and feels a little less happy with the universe and just a little bit angry.

 

It's raining and it's been a long time since the offices of Crane, Pool and Schmidt have been barred to them. Denny's conservatory isn't quite as good as the balcony, but it does. Denny's mind is filled with soap operas, quiz shows and fishing. He says his maid is hot, but Alan has seen her. She's fifty, dumpy and has a face pocked with acne scars. At least Denny might be in with a chance. They drink good whiskey and it swells in their mouth like the raw sound of a violin beginning to play. The cigar smoke falls down his windpipe like a dirty, gritty chocolate. The woody taste strangely filling. They savour it and exchange glances full of mutual appreciation. Alan feels a little incomplete.

"You know, you look lonely Alan. That new firm's not good for you, you should quit. We could go fishing!"

“I'm self employed, Denny.” says Alan quietly. Denny shrugs, points to his head and mutters 'Mad cow'.

Alan chuckles warmly and takes another mouthful of scotch. Danny looks pleased with himself and this pleases Alan. He surveys Denny fondly and swirls the scotch in his glass.

"I am lonely, Denny. I hate taking a case and knowing that Shirley won't be there to dress me down for it and that you won't be on my left hand side."

There's that moment. Denny is secretly pleased and he doesn't know how to respond, so he's basking whilst he thinks of something crass to say.

"My penis still works."

"Denny." Alan chortles. It's made more glorious by the fact that Denny looks shocked that Alan isn't taking this as seriously as he should. Denny's shock fades quickly. He shrugs, cocks his cigar and gives a froggy smile.

"Well it does." His voice sounds like breaking chalk. Alan wiggles down in his chair. "I bought these pills off the internet; did you know you could buy pills on the internet? They send me emails telling me I can, and I got some and what do you know ? Alan, my penis is two inches longer!"

"Denny!"

"I wonder if Carl would share Shirley."

"I doubt it."

Denny shrugs and smokes some more. Alan settles down into a quiet contemplation.

The door opens and someone stomps on the mat. Alan's heart freezes and drops as he hears that voice, like running your hand over velvet.

"Hey there buddy! They didn't have your usual brand of cigar so I upgraded you. I know you enjoy a good quality cigar as much as I do."

"Come on in here!" shouts Denny before Alan can stop him. Alan gives an exasperated little huff and fixes his eyes somewhere where he won't see Melvin Palmer. As he drinks his scotch nonchalantly, Alan can see him, dark jeans, a dark coat and an honest to god cowboy hat. He's almost amused. And those dreadfully earnest eyes in the dreadfully smarmy face. He grins when he sees Alan. Even though Alan's resolutely not looking at him, he sees the grin appear and not reach his eyes. Alan is a pretty fearless man, but he feels he's going to need a lot more scotch. If he's honest, he's ashamed of how he behaved at the bar.

"Alan, good buddy! Always a pleasure!"

It was a bit shorter than it might ordinarily would have been. Alan focuses on the contents of his glass and sips it with far more focus than necessary. In the silence whilst Danny goes to put the supplies Palmer brought away, Alan speaks quietly.

"How's Todd?"

Palmer sits down, he is actually smiling now. Not happily, but like a shark. Alan says 'Todd' like he's twanging a thick rubber band. It's possibly beneath him, fuck, it is beneath him, but getting at the boyfriend has been the only in that Alan's ever found and he feels like taking a second crack at it.

"Todd's fine, and that's mighty sweet of you to ask. And how's your lovely date? Quiet little thing but she sure looked sweet as pie." Palmer laughs a little and manages to look fondly tolerant of Alan's stupidity and rudeness. Alan tries not to give a damn. It just isn't quite the same when there wasn't someone in the room getting screwed over. Alan drinks some more scotch and tries to ignore Palmer as he pours himself some too.

"Why don't you come fishing with Danny and me? We always go fishing on sundays. It's relaxing, that's what it is."

Alan sucks air in through his teeth. He stands up and moves closer to Palmer, circling like a buzzard. He lowers his voice, making each word a low threatening pant. It works on women, they never win against him: it might work on Palmer. Palmer needs to stop winning. He looks at his body, and when he finally looks up, it is with lizard like, indolent eyes and through long, dusty lashes.

"I'm afraid that nature holds very little charm for me. I've personally never seen the appeal of grasping a rod and wrestling with it until you pull that gasping, muscular creature to the bank. When you have it at your mercy, Palmer, what do you do with it?"

Palmer doesn't look off kilter, but he does look like he's trying to decide between being amused and pissed off. He curls a lip and isn't smiling when he throws the tumbler of whiskey down his throat.

"Well, aren't you just a hoot." he spits and stalks off to find Denny. The momentary satisfaction that Alan feels quickly falls into self loathing and the whiskey curls in his stomach. Denny and Palmer do go fishing and Alan goes back to his hotel room.

 

"Denny fully admits to being a homophobe, but I'd have thought folks as liberal as you wouldn't be such a stick in the mud about it." says Palmer, all suited up and leaning back in the chair in Alan's office. He looks self satisfied as ever, sitting there and idly passing his pen between his fingers. The tops of his hands are surprisingly smooth looking, though still evenly tanned. Alan's political beliefs and personal dislikes war in his head, and ultimately he hates Palmer just that much.

"It's not that you're gay; I wouldn't let something as trivial as that ruin our friendship."

"That's what I like about you, Al, you're a hoot, I enjoy that. But Al, I thought we were having fun, joking around like good buddies do. I didn't think you'd be a one to take it personally."

Alan knows that he's disrespectful, posturing and unpleasant when he's meeting opposing council. He's not sure why Melvin Palmer's schtick infuriates him so; but it does seem silly when you put it like that. He looks lost for a moment and glances around his office. Palmer sits back with that same speculative look on his face.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't take things so seriously. I'm sure we'll get on famously next time we meet in the court room."

It's peppered with sarcasm, and that just makes Palmer grin harder. Alan grits his teeth and gestures to the door.

"It's been a pleasure as always, but I have work to do, so if you wouldn't mind?"

Palmer folds his jacket over his arm and nods to Alan. Alan inclines his head awkwardly, his muscles refusing to cooperate into making his movements smooth.

"You coming fishing with Denny and me tomorrow? I know how you like grasping your rod. We'll have ourselves a blast, that's what we'll have."

"I'm afraid I deplore nature, and whilst I'm willing to put up with it for a time for Denny's sake, since he has you, I plan to stay here and enjoy all the comforts of civilisation."

"Naw, you should come, Al. Besides, sometimes Denny's convinced you're there when you're not. Might be easier on the old guy if he weren't confused about that. I like the old guy, that's what I do."

Well that was a punch. Alan's sure he's not making it up. It takes a special kind of bastard to lie about your mutual friend's progressive illness. Increasingly often he'd start a conversation with Denny and end up with the ground falling out from under you as you realise he's not talking to you, and if he is, it isn't today. He must have shown a reaction to the hit, because Palmer looks strangely tenderly at him.

"I'll call at your hotel for you at six. I've got a spare pair of waders I got from an old boyfriend, he was a bit soft round the middle too, that's what he was, they should fit you a treat."

Alan nods and returns to his work, wondering which of his karmic fuck-ups Palmer is pay back for.

 

Alan is cold, bored and desperately wishing he'd brought something to read. He's standing awkwardly with the rod, too nervous to move around with the strong current and slippery rocks, and desperately hoping nothing bites. Denny is roaring with frustration and practically thrashing the water with his rod, at least he's having a good time. Melvin Palmer is standing surefooted in the current, smiling beatifically as he casts his line out into the river. He looks at home out here, like he could take nature herself in hand with just a flick of his wrist. Not a pasty city boy, very out of his element and desperately pining for concrete.

"Hey, Al, I think I got one!" crows Palmer.

"Got one what?" says Denny, skimming stones, his fishing rod lying forgotten.

Palmer reels in the fish, whooping and giving honest to god 'Yee haw's as he wrestles with the line. Denny starts whooping too and applauds as the foot long, shining, silver fish is thrown onto the bank.

"That's a beaut, that's what that is!" exclaims Palmer, gathering up the line and holding the still flicking fish suspended. "We're gonna have ourselves some good eating tonight, that's what we'll have!"

"Wow, did you see that, Alan? That was incredible! We should go fishing some time!"

Alan freezes, blinking slowly and halting the faltering path he'd been making to stop Danny's rod from being washed away.

"Denny...?"

"What, I was joking!"

Palmer unhooks the fishes mouth, places it in the ice chest in the back of the rented truck and stands surveying the river as though he owns it. Alan swears to god he can see beams of pride shining off him. Alan snorts a little and tries to cast his own line. He falls over.

"Careful there, Al-buddy!" shouts Palmer as he dashes across to help Alan to his feet again. Pride wounded and soaking wet, Alan shakes Palmer's helping grip off as soon as he is vertical and begins to stalk back to land. A firm hand claps him on his shoulder.

"No need to get sore because you went and fell on your hiney. I'll tell you what, I'll help you catch a fish! I love helping people, that's what I do!"

Alan is glad for the cold water because his blood almost boils at that. Palmer laughs again and pats him on the shoulder. Denny, damn him, is casting his line again happily. Alan doesn't want to disrupt his fun so he turns back to the river and attempts to cast his line. He flicks it back and Palmer bursts into gales of laughter. It's incredibly offputting and Alan doesn't feel he could pull off any glares related to wounded dignity when he's standing in borrowed waders that are already filled with water and a silly hat that Denny insisted was essential.

"You look like a landed fish yourself there, Al." chortled Palmer, causing Denny to smirk a little. "Look, I'll show you, you gotta put your hands here, throw it back like..." and Palmer is standing behind him, guiding the rod. Alan wonders why he thinks of that goddamn movie cliche of teaching the golf swing. Palmer isn't lingering, and his hands don't make contact with Alans, but all Alan does is feel incredibly awkward and aware of his body. He turns to face Palmer, aware that their faces will be inches apart. Then he looks. He asks the question with his eyes and the only answer he reads in Palmer's clear blue eyes is disappointment that he asked the question.

"I think you've just about got it there, Al; why don't you toss that son-of-a-bitch in again and see what you get?"

Alan hands the rod back to Palmer and climbs out of the river. He heads back to the truck and struggles out of his wet clothing. He brought a change of clothes, just in case, and he struggles into them as he watches Palmer helping Denny with his swing now. He pours a cup of coffee from one of the army of thermos flasks they brought and cranks up the heating in the car. Denny is quite happily letting Palmer show him what to do, and even hugs him when he finally lands a fish. Alan wonders why he is being so twitchy and shakes his head slightly at himself.

Palmer unhooks the fish for Denny and makes his way up to the jeep, holding the fish aloft jubilantly so that Alan can celebrate Denny's triumph too. He dumps the fish in the ice box and strips off his waders. He slides into the truck next to Alan and pours his own cup of coffee. Alan studiously ignores him, even as Palmer shifts energetically in his seat.

"Denny sure caught a good one, didn't he? That's what he did. It's nice to see the old guy enjoying himself, that's what I like. Look at him down there, happy as a pig in shit."

Alan looks balefully at him and Palmer settles into a seat next to him.

"I like Denny, that's what I do. He's a hoot and he doesn't take life too seriously; that's what you do. He's still a few sandwiches short of a picnic and I'd like to help the old guy out where I can. I mean, he's Denny Crane, that's who he is!"

Alan feels a traitorous part of himself thaw a little at this. He just feels very tired all of a sudden and can't bring himself to care whether he emerges victorious from this particular encounter with Palmer. He looks at Denny, standing still now, looking out down the river, lost in thought.

"He's a great man." says Alan quietly, the words feel oddly substantial in his mouth.

Palmer nods, his face looking quite sincere. Alan feels another part of him thaw and they sit in a silent companionship that isn't entirely uncomfortable.

 

Alan doesn't drink alone, but it often feels that way. He wonders if he kills the light of life in all his girlfriend's eyes, because for all he once loved this woman, for all she's intelligent and funny, her eyes are dull and lifeless. Their words slide together, a delightful friction that's a sensation apart from the conversation. They delicately drape blame for their past across one another, dangle the possibility that they might still be interested. Alan takes her in with his watery eyes and she seems to drown in the dead swamps contained there. He has her. He straightens his tie and extends an arm to guide her out of her seat and out of the door. On the way out he sees Palmer hunched over the bar. Alan knows that pose, in him it manifests as a quiet, dry martini and a bucket chair in his hotel room. The man got dumped. Alan touches his date on the small of the back and tells her to wait a moment. He sends a dry martini to Palmer. Alan suspects he's more of a scotch man, but where would be the fun in that? The barman takes his money and his tip and mixes the drink. Alan is on his way out the door when it is slid infront of Palmer. They catch each others eyes on the way out. Palmer raises his glass, looking almost amused, even as his eyes look broken. Alan nods to him. He doesn't smile, but he leaves his face open. Sympathy and respect.

Alan leaves with his girl. He's feeling strangely sad. The memory of the taste of loneliness is bitter in his mouth. They fuck against a wall, furious, rough and greedy. It wasn't the sex that either of them were expecting and Alan comes long before his frustration has burnt out. He straightens his tie and calls her a cab. She kisses him on the cheek in a sad type of goodbye. He wonders if she senses that this finished nothing between them.

"Go drink with your friend." she says, resting a comforting hand on his arm. Alan looks puzzled slightly but watches her leave.

"He's not my friend." he says softly. He walks back into the bar anyway. Palmer has finished the martini and there's a bottle of bourbon in front of him and a tumbler in his hand. He casually pours the whiskey down his throat and wipes his mouth after every swig. Alan sits on the bar stool next to him.

"Hey, Al. Listen, no offense buddy, but I just don't think I can take your particular brand of friendship right now."

"Not in the mood for a hoot?" Alan says with a little more warmth than usual. Palmer tips his glass to Alan and drains it. Alan feels oddly companionable and orders a large glass of scotch of his own.

"I don't particularly enjoy a bar stool. How about you take that bottle and follow me to seating you're less likely to fall off in few more drinks."

"I can hold more liquor than they'll sell me, boy."

This makes him Alan chuckle slightly as he guides him to a low table in the corner and watches as he eases himself into a chair. Alan adjusts his suit and wriggles down into the chair. Palmer's eyes aren't wild yet but they are deeper than Alan has ever seen them. It's knocked a little of the shine off him, the shine which really annoys Alan. They sit for a few minutes just gazing out into the bar and drinking their scotch.

"How long had you been together?" Alan's voice rings the question with sadness. Palmer leans back clutching his glass and looking absolutely exhausted.

"Wasn't the love of my life or anything, but four years is a mighty long time."

"Unthinkably so."

It really is to Alan. He likes his hotel room. He likes his job. He likes his friends. The very idea of someone disrupting that was repellent to him. The very idea of someone disrupting the calm pools of his mind is repellent to him.

"You know Alan, I've always thought you was a hoot, but you've never liked me. What'you doing here in the middle of the night, drinking whiskey with me and listening to me telling you how my feller done left me."

"I'm a sucker for misery."

They drink, mostly in silence. Palmer doesn't seem to want to say anything and Alan doesn't know what to say. No matter how much Alan drank his thoughts never seemed to blur. They swim around, tangling together and snagging in painful jolts. There was no conclusion, just at strange absence of irritation and anger. When he's not being irritating, Alan finds there's something magnetic about him.

They can't stand up at the end of the evening and the bar man pours them into the same taxi.

Alan wakes up with Palmer spooned against him and snoring gently. Were it Denny, he would have rolled away quickly, but Alan didn't, although his skin prickled cold. He's not sure why he didn't move away. Palmer wakes up with a start; he pushes Alan off his arm gently and shakes himself awake.

"Hey, sorry about that there, Al."

"Don't worry. Denny likes to spoon too."

"It's some friendship you fellers have got there."

"It is."

"I'm quite glad to be a part of it, and I ain't trying to muscle in on it or nothing. I'm just gonna go home and drink some prairie oysters, that's what I'm gonna do."

He gives Alan a few hearty claps on the back, each one causing Alan to wince, stretches and walks stiffly to the bathroom and the door shuts. Alan rubs his eyes and takes a bottle of water from the mini bar, swearing to himself that he will never do this again. Drinking till your memory's gone in a young man's game.

When Palmer exits the bathroom, he doesn't quite look Alan in the eyes. He picks up his jacket and lets himself out relatively quietly. Alan lies back on his bed and groans a little. He once knew a young lady who was fond of taking gentlemen from behind, as such he knew nothing had happened with Palmer last night, the state that he was in this morning he was damn sure he wouldn't have been able to do anything himself. He just feels very, very tired.

After a hot shower, bacon and eggs and a black coffee, Alan made his way out of the building and into a cab. He wanted to work from home for a while, but Denny had insisted he rent an office.

"The crazies always kept coming to find you. You don't want them coming to find you at home, do you?"

The logic was flawless and Alan had conceded to it. He had an attractive secretary who could take his flirting with a flat look and a cutting comeback, he had a huge office with a balcony that he could sit on. He never did unless Denny came to meet him after work. There was a bottle of scotch in his desk drawer, waiting for such occasions. Alan could usually read and digest information effortlessly, but today his briefs were as impenetrable as a stone wall and he found himself getting more and more frustrated with his clients, even the musky redhead with the never ending legs.

"Hey there." says Palmer, a little more softly than usual. Alan thinks he looks tired. He cocks his head, face expectant with a milky sort of curiousity. Palmer's grin says 'I ain't even engaging with you on that level'.

"Seems you and me both got some mighty fine taste, that's what we've got." he says, dropping a watch on the table. It's Alan's watch, or at least one very like it. Alan looks at the one on his wrist and gives a silent half laugh.

"How could you tell the difference? They're both exactly alike."

"My daddy gave mine to me just after I graduated from law school. It's engraved."

"That's so sweet." says Alan, genuinely a little charmed.

"Yeah, it was the last thing he gave me before he learned I'd taken to sucking cock. Weren't too inclined to give me anything after that."

Alan rubs his own watch between his fingers thoughtfully as Palmer tells him this. His was a present to himself after he got his first pay cheque over ten thousand dollars. It does actually mean a lot to him really- when he got that pay cheque, Alan started to stop playing by the rules. At that point, he became brilliant.

"It's kind of why I like looking after the old guy. He's like the daddy I always wished I could've had."

"Denny would shoot you if he knew." says Alan, chuckling a little.

"I sure suspect he might, but I'm older now, and smart enough not to tell him."

Alan's secretary opens the door. There must be a client because she doesn't look like she's ready to tell him off. Palmer gives her a good-natured salute.

"S'Alright Ma'am, I'm just here exchanging watches with my buddy Al here. Seems I picked up the wrong one from the bedside table this morning, that's what I did. I'll be leaving in a minute."

Alan's secretary raises an eyebrow at them. Alan isn't particularly annoyed when people make this mistake about him and Denny, but he hasn't slept with this secretary yet and doesn't want her getting the wrong idea. He doesn't like the idea of being considered safe. Alan fixes Palmer with an icy stair and drops the watch on the table. Palmer swoops it up and fixes it on his wrist. This one looks imperceptibly more natural there. Alan fixes his own watch on, it's still warm from being in Palmer's pocket. It tickles him far deeper than his skin as the other man's body heat seeps into him.

Alan nods politely and adjusts the files and lines up the pens on his desk.

"Yes, well, was there anything else or did you just want to come in and make suggestive comments in front of my staff?"

He looks at Alan for a long moment. The absence of playfulness in his eyes is astounding and hits Alan like a bucket of cold water. He doesn't want to feel guilty, but a few grasping fingers of his brain are teasing him in that direction. The playful twitch of his cheeks isn't there when Palmer runs a hand through his hair and and says:

"I'm going to see you later, good buddy that's what I'm going to do."

He sounds like he's trying, but like he's tired.

 

Denny pushes a tumbler of whiskey into Alan's hand an they turn to face each other, cigars in hand and utterly blissful grins on their faces. They may have considered living together when they first got married, but now they couldn't want their relationship to do anything other than continue as it was. In the evening, whilst the city bustles and the last shreds of the working day are wrung out, Alan finds it like a golden embrace to sit in an armchair and relax in completely comfortable company.

"You know, I'm glad you're getting along with Melvin Palmer." says Denny, puffing on his cigar and smiling widely.

"I wouldn't go that far," says Alan, taking a deep drag on his, "but he is surprisingly tolerable on occasion."

Denny chuckles softly, like smoky chug of an old engine.

"I ought to get you two together more often. It's not good for you to be hanging around with nuts like Jerry. You need more real men in your life."

"I've got all the man I need." says Alan, smiling warmly at Denny. Denny visibly basks under the glow of Alan's gaze and Alan feels the melancholic fingers of their deep affection around his heart when they look away.

"Denny, do you ever wonder what it would be like if we were normal?"

Denny has an answer to this. Alan can tell it's going to be vaguely profound when Denny relaxes into the chair and takes a swallow of whiskey.

"I never wondered. We're extraordinary, Alan. Why would we want to eke our way through life, just achieving enough? We've got balls of steel; Alan, we've got too much life to fade into the back ground."

It makes Alan feel quite alone. He only knows one extraordinary man, and he's starting to fall apart. Alan can't imagine Denny as anything other than completely full of life, but gradually, suits are being replaced by cardigans, drinks in bars are becoming drinks in a sitting room, and outrageous adventures are becoming a sedate retirement. Alan has always seen Denny as a force of nature, but sometimes- when he moves to lift a drink or when he's can't see Alan watching, he looks frail.

"Denny." he says, raising his glass.

"Alan." responds Denny with equal sincerity and depth, but a little bafflement.

They sit there for a while. They sit in the suburbs and watch suburban life go by. Alan wonders whether Denny misses it, the city, the bustle of the law firm, the young lives unfolding around him. That's what Alan has always liked the most, watching people's lives come together as they find their feet. And sleeping with them before they do so.

Denny has a stroke that night.

Alan has hated hospitals ever since his wife died. Denny's room is clean, relatively luxurious and filled with flowers. The thinness of the place vexes Alan. It's a cardboard recreation of a room. The flowery curtains and the faux wood laminate on the furniture hint of a home, a cheerful middle-class home with five children and no taste.

 

Denny watches TV; he can't speak easily now, the words are just gone from his brain and he can't pull them together any more. Alan wishes it had been something like walking, like sex, like breathing, but Denny is made from the cloth that he weaves with his words. It's a cruel destruction of a man and it is like swallowing acid to see it.

 

“Hey there, buddy.”

Palmer is all blue, blue sweater, blue eyes and blue jeans. He's the rugged outdoors under cool summer sunshine, and it makes the room just a bit brighter to have him in it. Or it makes it a little bit easier, not being alone with Denny.

 

“How's my pal Denny?” he says, clamping a hand on Denny's shoulder, and addressing the question expansively enough that it could be directed at either of them. Alan smiles sadly. He's had enough of people not talking to Denny. Denny can't respond though. He makes a few gestures, a few noises, before sighing in despair.

 

“I bought you a bunch of things, that's what I did. Some scotch miniatures, there's a steak dinner in there and, hey, this thing have a VCR? I brought you some girly movies, that's what I did.”

 

Alan sees a ghost of a gleam in Denny's eyes, amusement at who he used to be more than pleasure at what Palmer has brought. Alan ignores the tears that redden Denny's eyes when the follow up thought, that he isn't that person any more, hits.

 

“Hey, Denny,” says Palmer, expression marking his discomfort at putting the paper bag of supplies down in front of Denny and clapping his shoulder heartily. “I'm going to take your buddy Al here for a drink, looks like he needs it.”

Alan sees a light go out behind Denny's eyes and knows he's been dismissed. Palmer ushers him out of the door and they head to Palmer's car. The nostril quivering look of disdain that Alan gave the cafeteria was enough to drive them into town to find a restaurant.

“I gotta confess, I've been wondering about you for a few days. Ain't seen you around. I looked for you. Was when I went to visit the old guy, the maid told me that he was here. It's a plum shame about that, that's what it is.”

Alan barely smiles and orders a coffee. He's been by Denny's bedside for days now and he has only had a few hours of sleep and a couple of snatched showers. The coffee wakes him up and gives his brain enough clarity to see how tired he is.

“You look dog tired, buddy. Here's what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna sit with the old guy for a while, eat a few grapes, generally shoot the shit; you're gonna go back to your hotel and catch some zees, that's what you're gonna do.”

Alan thinks about it for a while. What would usually be an intense thoughtful look is actually just that he's too tired to focus. He drains the coffee and picks up his coat.

“Let me know if there's any change, or if Denny needs anything.”

Palmer nods and ushers Alan out of the door and into a cab. Palmer looks sad, but like he can cope with it. Alan envies him.

When Alan arrives in his hotel room, he feels like he's never seen it before. The clothes in the closet don't feel like his, the toothbrush by the sink feels alien in his mouth. Alan puts on pyjamas that feel wrong next to his skin and curls up in the bed that is from his old life. A life where Denny was there for him, solid, calm and absolutely vital.

His eyes sting when he closes them and his head aches as it realises that the sleep its longed for is within its grasp. Alan's thoughts are rusty and barbed, he can't begin to navigate them. It is almost a blessed relief that they trap him in a corner, far from damaging thoughts of a life without Denny exactly as he was. As Alan had loved him.

Alan wakes up with a jolt, half expecting to see the hospital room around him, and is possibly more alarmed when it is his own bedroom. He is bleary eyed as he checks his phone for messages. It occurs to him to check in with Palmer, but he doesn't have his number. Having his number would be like admitting they were friends. He calls his secretary and has her get him the number. Denny's in hospital, but Alan can't help resenting that he can't afford to be as ridiculous as he feels like being.

Denny's speech therapist is exactly Alan's type. She's a slender fifty-five year old who looks at Alan like she's got the measure of him. He finds that irresistible in a woman. Denny has enough speech back to manage 'she's mine', and Alan doesn't have the heart to deny him anything at the moment. It's good that he has something to hope for. Alan is certain that half of Denny's progress is that he wants to get his speech back to a point where he can sweet talk her, he's also certain that Denny's progress would be better still if he wasn't enjoying the opportunity to use lude sign language.

“How're my best buddies?” say Palmer, giving a jovial salute to the therapist as he enters the room. Evidently this is a nut job too far and she stands up to leave, brushing down her skirt and pointedly ignoring Denny checking out her ass in favour of reprimanding Alan in a voice like rapping knuckles.

“Looks like you've made a friend there, buddy.” says Palmer, lounging in the chair on the other side of Denny.

“She's mine.” says Denny proudly.

“She sure is. Looks like she's got more time for you than that hoot over there.”

“Denny Crane.” Denny manages to say, the words improperly formed and lacking their usual rhythm. He still looks content though. Alan's pleased about that. Denny has to get better, and to do that, he has to keep trying. He has to.

“She shoot you down cold yet?”

“What's his is mine. I seem to recall a vow going something like that...”

Alan looks at Denny with facaetious expectation, and Denny looks mutinous. Palmer is looking at him with an odd expression and Alan isn't quite sure how to interpret it, and if he could interpret it, he's not sure he knows how to respond. He offers Palmer a small twitch of his cheeks- the Alan Shore version of a genuine smile. His eyes gleam in response, but Palmer's look remains odd. Denny puts on the TV and watches it intently. Alan strongly suspects he's trying to ignore any interaction between his two friends. Alan sits there in silence, watching Denny watching TV, and feels and odd sense of peace. His old man is coming together again. And he's still all there; well, there as he was before the stroke. Alan doesn't think about that.

They turf Palmer out after the end of visiting hours, and though Alan can stay, Denny seems exhausted and is not so subtly hinting that he'd like some time alone tonight. Alan is still exhausted with a sleep debt of days, he might refuse a lift if it were offered, but he doesn't fight when he is guided firmly into the back of the pale gold SUV.

“I've worked with guys in prison too, I've got good at knowing what a man who hasn't eaten for days looks like. I'm gonna take you for dinner, that's what I'm gonna do.”

Alan acquiesces. He looks out of the window of the car, nothing filling his mind but the city as it moves past. He doesn't think it odd when Palmer's hand moves from the gear stick to give his leg a reassuring rub, he just feels a little...well, touched.

“Come on, buddy.”

They go to a steakhouse and Alan get a rare fillet steak. It is delicious, and the red wine is as velvety as the rolling of Palmer's voice. Alan is too easily detached from reality, the wine unhooking him and the waves of the calming stories in a southern drawl drift him away from himself. Before he knows it, Alan is smiling wistfully. Alan isn't capable of pure pleasure, but the idea of it is pleasing to him.

"Tell you what, I think I've drunk too much of this to drive you anywhere." says Palmer, swilling his wineglass.

"I think I'm about drunk enough to let you drive me anywhere."

"I may just take you up on that, cowboy." Palmer says, lightly seductive. Alan raises his eyebrows indolently. Palmer gives a cheeky grin but looks away, he's joking but Alan can't help but take it a little personally.

"Don't worry pal, a guy don't last long if he hits on his buddies. Surest way to get a punch in the mouth that I know of."

"It's fine." says Alan and wonders why he wants a cigar so very badly. What would Freud say?

"Since I ain't driving anywhere, what's say we move onto the hard stuff? I know you like your scotch but I'm more of a bourbon man myself."  
Alan fixes on his wine, watching the last mouthful of the bottle going from pink to black with each swirl of his glass. Scotch is his drink with Denny and just imagining the taste of it hits the points which are raw with worry over him.

“I'd actually like some bourbon.” says Alan, pouring the dregs of the wine down his throat. Palmer nods and salutes off his forehead. Alan isn't surprised when he comes back to the table with the bottle. The acidic honey of the bourbon is different enough that it doesn't make him long for Denny. It's syrupy sweet, with a scorch in it; it tastes of southern summers and sunsets on the porch. It is very Palmer.

"I drank bourbon through college." says Alan, clinking the ice-cubes in his drink together. It's practically a sin to put ice in scotch, but it just adds to the summer of bourbon. "Thought it made me look sophisticated."

"I drank beer for much the same reason." Palmer replies easily, and Alan can almost see him as a young man. Probably in a polo-shirt, collar turned up, football in hand. Drinking beer, one of the guys in a way that Alan can never be.

"Do you ever miss college?" asks Alan for no reason he can think of. He feels quite drunk and just wants to talk about meaningless things. Palmer giggles a bit. It's a manly giggle, but a giggle none the less.

"I miss the drinking, Al. The difference between a straight man and a homosexual is about ten drinks, that's what I say."

"And how many drinks have we had?" says Alan teasingly.

"Steady on Al, you're only on number four."

"I've always been a fast study." says Alan, looking artfully disinterested but trying to see if he gets any reaction from Palmer. Palmer just looks indulgently amused.

It starts to feel later in the bar- the light doesn't change, the people slump into a deeper stupor. They drain the last of the bottle and try to focus on each other.

"Excuse me sirs, would you like me to call you a cab?"

Alan nods and hands over twenty bucks along with his address. For some reason it doesn't occur to him that Palmer would be leaving him to go to his own house. It doesn't seem to occur to Palmer either. He invites him up for coffee and Palmer nods in acceptance. They arrive in his room and Alan takes two bottles of Jack Daniels from the mini bar. Alan tosses the miniature at him. Palmer catches it easily and moves forward uncomfortably.

"This might be a bit forward Al, but I can tell when straight guys are trying to get me to make a pass. I don't know what your game is, but if you think for a moment and still want to play, I ain't adverse to making a pitch."

 

“Good metaphor.”

Busted. Alan isn't sure that he wants something and was hoping for the decision to be made for him. Now he has to wonder whether the heady sensuality he's been feeling since the first glass of wine is going to take him through this. Whether he'll still feel so horny when there's stubble against his face, when the skin beneath his hands is covered with fine hair, when it's as bulky and muscular as his own. He's staring, bourbon in hand and trying to work out whether he should kiss Palmer.

Palmer twists the top off of miniature and empties it in one swallow and wipes his mouth. He picks up the phone on the bedside table and gives a wryly unsurprised grin.

"See ya later, Al."

"Wait."

Alan can't think of anything else to say but that. Palmer sits down on the bed resignedly and looks expectantly at him. Alan pours the whiskey into a glass and sips at it. The taste blooms over his mouth, numbing him slightly and the answer comes to him. He crosses the room in one swift movement, pulls Palmer to his feet and presses him into a kiss. Palmer's hands are firm on the side of his face, his lips move definitely and passionately. Alan is not used to feeling the softest one on a kiss, but the unrelenting classic masculinity makes him feel he should yield.

They kiss for a long time, the drink keeping their thoughts from anything other than the arousal generated as their tongues scrape against each other and each's lips knead the other's. Alan's hands probe under Palmer's jumper, finding the skin of his back surprisingly soft and tender. Alan enjoys the feel, vulnerable and human with soft fat and hard muscle underneath it. The women he's had have all been tiny and birdlike. Palmer pulls his top off and returns to kissing Alan. Alan concentrates on feeling the muscles in his back and the soft, dense, sandy coloured hair on his chest as Palmer works to undo Alan's shirt and ease it to the ground.

More kissing as Alan tries to mentally prepare himself for what comes next. A cock. Another man's cock. It might be bigger than his, he might never be able to look at Palmer across the courtroom again. He imagines it now, Palmer smiling jovially at the judge and declaring "S'alright judge, my buddy Al here loves to posture, that's what he does. Has to over compensate, judge, and try to cover that he squeals like a girl when he comes.".

Alan gives a small yelp and steps back.

"You alright?"

Palmer's eyes are cloudy with drink and lust, and standing there just in his trousers he doesn't seem like the laughing clown lawyer. Alan blinks a little and nods.

"I'm fine; of course I'm fine; why wouldn't I be fine?"

Palmer reaches for his shirt.

"I knew this was a bad idea. Sorry about this, Al. Just forget it."

"Melvin!" says Alan as he gathers his stuff to leave the hotel room. The name rings like an alarm bell and Palmer turns around looking a little pissed off.

"Sorry, I was just having a minor freak out . Why don't you come and stand here and I'll stand there and we'll get back to what we were doing just a moment ago."

"Look Al, I'm serious. I am not really looking for you to go for it and wake up tomorrow going "Gee, that's never happened before, I was so drunk, well ain't this awkward.". I do this with you you've got to be right there with me, that's what you gotta be."

Alan lies down on the bed and looks at Palmer. He sits down and looks expectantly at Alan.

"Out of curiousity, which one of us would, you know..." Alan tries to make his hand gestures as expressive as possible, which just makes Palmer burst out laughing.

"What is it with straight guys and just heading straight to the ass?"

Alan gapes, his eyes gogging.

"We do not head straight for the... don't you do that anyway?"

"Sure, but it ain't the easiest thing in the world for a first time. Unless you've been adventurous, you'll be about as much good as tits on a bull and if you ain't used to it, you'd be walking funny for a while. Not like there's nothing else we can do."

Palmer lies down on the bed too, both of them on their sides, facing each other. There's going to be another kiss, but not yet. They're getting comfortable again. Alan quite likes this.

"What is your experience of the dirt track, as they say."

"Is that what they say?" asks Alan languidly. "I've never particularly been drawn to it myself, but I've had not too unpleasant experiences at the hands of a young lady who seemed to rather enjoy me on my hands and knees."

"Well isn't that just a delightful image." grins Palmer, resting a hand on Alan's waist. The affectionate contact makes Alan move closer on the bed.  
"You might think so, but I have to say I don't think I'll ever take to ball gags."

"What is Alan Shore without the use of his mouth?"

"Come now, my mouth isn't the only good part of me."

Alan bridges the distance between them and kiss Palmer.

They wake up hours later, the sheets twisted and sticky, their heads pounding. Alan groans at the few blades of sunlight that make it between the blinds and the thick curtains. Water. Aspirin. These two thoughts make it to the forefront of Alan's mind. He manages to stagger to the mini bar to get a bottle and slaps one down on the bedside table next to Palmer along with two aspirin. It would probably be polite to offer the shower to the guest, but Alan heads there first. Perhaps he won't feel so awful if he's not covered in yesterday's grime, two people's sweat and probably not a little semen. The shower helps. Having an empty bladder helps.

“The shower's in there if you want it.” says Alan, heading back to his bedroom. Palmer looks disgustingly cheerful, tucking in to a huge cooked breakfast. There's a steaming pot of coffee and another breakfast, all covered up.

“I know I stink like teen spirit left out in the sun, but you can't get over the night before without the judicious application of bacon, hash browns and eggs, that's what I say.”

“Thank you.” says Alan a little weakly, pouring himself a coffee and starting to eat. It does help, even if it does sit like lead in his stomach. The salt does seem to make some part of him happy.

“About last night...”

“You know I think I will have that shower.” says Palmer, putting his breakfast aside and stalking to the bathroom.

 

Alan broods over his coffee, the one question that no answer presents itself to is “Why?”. He knew last night that he wanted Palmer, and now he wants to know why. Because until he knows why, he can't know what to do this morning. He wonders if he has something of Denny about him, or whether he's just appealing to a childish part of him that was always just a little fascinated by cowboys, perhaps it's just Palmer getting under his skin like he always has.

 

“Woo! That was just what I needed, that's what that was!” said Palmer drying the back of his neck and pulling on yesterday's clothes. “I feel like a lamb at spring time, that's how I feel.”

 

“Melvin...”

 

“Ok, Al, I'm gonna listen right up at the moment that you say last night was a mistake. I'm a straight up kinda guy and it wasn't a mistake. You might regret it, but that ain't none of my business; you did it on purpose and you start saying otherwise, you don't say it to me.”

 

“It wasn't a mistake. I don't know what it was.”

 

“Yeah,” says Palmer, as he leaves, “Why don't you figure that out before you try it again?”

 

“I'll see you at the hospital.”

Palmer doesn't disagree, but he doesn't exactly agree either. Alan is just relieved to have a little bit of space to think about it.

 

Shirley Schmidt is not an easy woman to pin down. Law firm gone, she makes a little money with a private practice, sits on the board for almost every charity in the area, gives special lectures at Harvard and generally does everything she can short of having a real job, which Carl would disapprove of. Even when sent an urgent message, it has been three days before she's cleared a slot big enough that they can have lunch. She looks good though. Shirley always looks good. If Denny had half her tenacity and bite, he wouldn't have a legacy, he'd have a cult. Shirley never holds a court in the palm of her hand as Denny does though, she has technical brilliance with a twist of genius. Alan reckons that's how she'd be in bed too.

 

"Alan. How's Denny?"

She sounds almost afraid to ask. She should be. A friend of over twenty years is in hospital and you can't cancel the fund-raiser for orphans? Cold.

 

"He's recovering as well as can be expected. Terrorising the nurses, hitting on his therapist, that sort of thing. "

 

Shirley gives a half grin and shrugs.

"Sounds like Denny."

 

"You should come and see him Shirley. He may not like having people see him like this, but he'd like to know you care. Nothing says 'I care' like a cheerleader outfit."

 

"I think you've seen as much of that outfit as you'll ever see." said Shirley, and ordered white wine and a salad. Alan orders chicken and tells the waiter to make it a bottle.

 

"Planning to get me drunk, Alan?"

 

"Would I do a thing like that, Shirley?"

 

Shirley smirks. Alan knows that she likes being flirted with. Reassures her that she's still sexy, desirable. Shirley's appeal isn't her looks, it's her knife-like personality. It's irresistible when a woman looks at you like she could leave you screaming and panting if she only chose to take the chore on.

"How's married life suiting you?" asks Alan, as the waiter brinks the wine for them to try. It's acrid, cold and dry, like the morning outside. Alan nods to the waiter and he leaves the bottle.  
"It's fine. Carl's a marvellous cook and the gardens look great."

 

"That bad?" chuckles Alan and sips his wine.

 

"No!" says Shirley indignantly. "I knew what he was like."

"You're just not ready to grow old. "

She looks at her lap, the nail, apparently, having been hit on the head.

 

"Is Denny ready?" she asks, obviously hoping to be just a little cruel. It doesn't quite hit the mark. Denny's been ready for years. Building his legacy, marrying Alan, hoping to go out in a blaze of glory. Alan looks at her sadly. She visibly repents but doesn't seem to understand. Their food arrives and they begin to eat in silence.

"I miss him, Shirley." says Alan, a little surprised at himself for saying it. "You don't recover completely, especially at his age, and every bit that I lose of him is gone for good. And just when I resign myself to losing him by inches, this takes away a mile."

He takes a drink as much because he can't stand to look at Shirley as she takes this news in. She's known Denny a lot longer than he has, and in some ways, she's known him better. Shirley is one of the few people this should hit as hard as it hit him. It must have hit her pretty hard as she reaches across the table and takes his hand.

"He'll pull through, Alan, you'll see."

"I'm not so sure."

"Would you visit him? I'm sure he feels isolated with just me and Melvin Palmer." Alan gets a little thrill just saying his name. As he thinks of the man, his brain trills with the memory of what they did last night.

"Palmer? That oaf you brought to my thanks giving party? That really sells me on visiting him."

"I can't understand why you wouldn't. Palmer doesn't have to be there."

"I'm the same age as Denny. I may not look it," she raised a warning eyebrow, "but I am. All my friends are heading downhill like this and I will soon be following them. Forgive me for not wanting to watch their decline too closely."

Alan opens his mouth to respond but Shirley raises a finger to shush him.

"Do you think we could not talk about Denny?"

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know! Anything. Your law cases, which one of your exes you're hooking up with this time, the latest crazy thing!"

"It's not been so crazy without Crane, Poole and Schmidt."

"Despite being married to the second craziest third of that trio?"

"Come now, Denny could beat Edwin into a cocked hat in the crazy stakes. We mustn't persecute him because he wears pants." .

They get the cheque, the waiter refills their glasses and Alan picks up the tab. He suggests they share a cab home, but when she gets into the car, they both know this means home via the hospital. Shirley is visibly blanching as they approach Denny's room. Denny's room smells stale, the clinical cleanness not covering the smell of sweat, urine or just bodies, bodies stewing with badly circulated air.

Palmer is there, looking tired but happy as he and Denny clean Denny's guns. When the door opens, they hide them under Denny's covers and look alive with mischief. It raises a sort of teary smile in Alan.

“Hello Denny.”

Denny turns and takes Shirley in and beams. He tries to say her name but it obviously won't come. It takes Shirley a moment to realise that's the problem.

“Hey Shirl! You don't mind if I call you Shirl, do you? Denny speaks so highly of you I feel like we're old friends, that's how I feel!”

“Lovely.” grimaces Shirley, shaking Palmer's hand briefly and dropping it as quickly as she can. Denny is looking miffed that his time with Shirley is being stolen by anyone. Alan puts the cigar and the hip flask of scotch onto Denny's bedside table and gives his shoulder a reassuring rub.

“Melvin and I will leave you to talk.” says Alan, and hauls Palmer from the room with a significant look.

They shut the door behind them and Palmer breathes a sigh of relief.

“I'm beat. Sure takes a lot out of a guy to talk all day to a guy who can't string a sentence together. I just keep wishing he could snap out of it and be Denny again. That's what I wish.”

“I wish that too.”

They headed to the cafeteria and bought polystyrene cups of coffee. Well, the serveuse said it was coffee but Alan wasn't convinced. Still, it was warm, wet and caffeinated. Palmer won't meet his eyes and it's vaguely irritating.

“Melvin.” Alan reaches out and touches his arm. Bright blue eyes meet his and Alan tries to fill them with emotion. “I don't know what last night was, I don't know why it happened.” He holds the gaze for a moment, taking in Palmer's face. It's all eyes. It's beautiful to him, and that convinces him he's right. “Stay with me tonight.”

Palmer's eyes get focussed and he thinks for a moment. Alan finds he's holding his breath.

“I think I can do that.”

 

This time they're sober. It's better. Anticipation sets their nerves on fire and they gasp with each touch and kiss. They burst into the hotel room in a frantic tussle of limbs, tearing at each other and gripping and fumbling as they shed clothes, buttons and underwear.

Palmer sucks cock the way Alan eats pussy. He just does it, his mouth and tongue moving over the bits that he knows to be most sensitive. The technique is flawless, and as he does it, his hands are moving over Alan, learning his body in a way that his mouth doesn't need to.

Alan has to learn. He knows what he likes, he knows which bits he always feels women miss. He knows what he fantasise about looking down and seeing. He thinks he's getting the hang of it. He thinks he's doing well and Palmer arching underneath him suggests he's not doing badly at all.

They exhaust each other, then lie in bed. It feels a little weird to be lying in that spot, the spot that every girl he's ever woken up with has always found. Just below the shoulder blade, before the ribcage rises up. He rests there. Palmer's arms are around him and aside for the icy spot inside him, the spot that is losing Denny, he's very warm. Neither of them say anything. Palmer seems lost in thought, and Alan is too.

“I can't have a relationship,” says Alan, unclear as to whether he's saying it for his own benefit, to remind himself or to let Palmer know. Palmer squeezes him tight and then relaxes again.

“My daddy always used to tell this story. I reckon you'll have heard it. Scorpion wants to cross a river, says to a frog 'take me across the river'. Frog says 'no, you'll sting me'. Scorpion promises not to so the frog takes him across the river. Half way across, the scorpion stings the frog. As he's slippin' below the surface, frog says 'why'd you do that? Now we'll both die!' and the scorpion shrugs and says...”

“What do you expect, I'm a scorpion.” finishes Alan.

“That's what you are.” says Palmer. “Doesn't make much sense to make believe otherwise. I may be a slimy son-of-a-bitch, but I learned enough not to give rides to Scorpions, that's what I say. “

Alan turns over and looks languidly at Palmer.

“Oh, and what would you call what we just did, if not 'giving a ride to scorpions'?” asks Alan, teasing his fingers through Palmer's sandy chest hair.

“I'd call it a calculated risk.” says Palmer a little too seriously for Alan's liking. Alan grimaces and shuffles out of the comfortable position he'd found himself in and reaches for his phone to check on Denny. Palmer gives a woot of laughter.

“Don't get sore, buddy. I know you don't like me, and I'm as lost as you are as to why we're even here, but if I didn't expect you to bolt at any minute, I'd be a fool, that's what I'd be.”

“Hmm.” says Alan and peels himself out of bed to have a shower. Palmer is gone when he gets out. Alan heads out to work.

Denny has a live in therapist. She works with him to make sure he recovers properly from the stroke. Alan can't imagine that they'd get on, but Denny seems to be comfortable with her. Alan wonders what Denny would say about that, could he manage to talk fluently. It seems like a life lesson waiting to happen.

“Do you ever start to wonder, Denny, if everything you've been looking for your whole life might be wrong?”

Denny shrugs expansively, and smiles in a way that suggests is immensely pleased with his life, all told. A string of beautiful ex-wives, millions of dollars, houses, what else could there be?

“Alan...” he manages, and then looks worried. “Ok?”

“I'm fine, Denny. I'm just a bit unsure of something right now. It's very unsettling when you suddenly leave your comfort zone.”

Denny looks plaintively at Alan till he smirks and they both take a drag of their cigars. Yes, Denny would know that right now. His words all but gone. Alan wonders for a moment whether Denny would want to know. He was so jealous of Jerry, it was impossible to know how he'd react. He was never at all comfortable with homosexuality, it was impossible to know how he'd react to that.

“Melvin Palmer been around today?” asks Alan casually. Denny smiles fondly and puffs on his cigar. He needs to focus hard. The right side of his face is still lax and he can't form a seal around the cigar unless he holds it with his hand.

“He was here.” Denny manages with obvious difficulty. “Fishing.” he says, and does a loose interpretation of a man casting a line. Alan smiles.

“Asking about you.” Denny finishes. The half of his face that can still move is smirking. “Knew you'd like him.”

“I do, Denny.”

“Like me best.”

“Indeed.” says Alan, sipping his whiskey. “But I like him more than I ever expected to.”

Denny gives a low chuckle, but it's more slurred than it usually is. Alan gives in to his impulse to reach out and take Denny's hand. Denny squeezes Alan's hand and returns it to him. The grip isn't as firm as it once was.

“You will always be the great love story of my life, Denny.” says Alan with so much emotion that he feels empty.

“I know.”

Denny says nothing more for the rest of the evening, looking out across the stars. That night he has his second stroke.

When Alan gets the call to say that Denny's on a ventilator in hospital, he doesn't feel anything.

“Oh.” he says, and gets out of his bed to put his pants on.

Alan calls Palmer whilst he's waiting for the cab to arrive. When he's made the call summoning him to the hospital, Alan realises he should have been calling him to be with Denny, not because he's scared and he desperately wants Palmer beside him as he goes to face this new turn in Denny's condition. Palmer meets him at the door with a hug that makes the cab driver tut in disgust. Alan just clings tight in a hug for a few minutes, waiting for the strength to go find Denny.

This room wasn't anything like a home. The chairs beside the bed weren't comfortable, there were no flowers, no TV, no patterned curtains. Machines were surrounding Denny, checking his heart, his blood pressure, powering his lungs, the IV sustaining him and the EEG searching in vain for brainwaves.

“Which one of you is Mr Shore?” asks the Doctor. He looks very young and very tired. Alan raises his hand slightly. The doctor smiles briefly.

“I understand you are Mr Crane's medical proxy?”

“I'm his husband.”

“Of course. Sit down Mr Shore, you've got a hard decision to make.”

So it's not Denny. It's a lump of meat that used to be Denny. Even Alan finds it hard to visualise this body as being the man he's loved for so long. His chest bared and covered with electrodes, this face stuffed with tubes and his arms bare and vulnerable. Denny is movement, life, expression. An irrepressible smirk and the proud declaration 'Denny Crane'. He is not the man in this bed.

They wouldn't lose anything. Brain dead the doctors said. Lost. Gone. Areas for speech and memory utterly destroyed, plus some for cognition. He wouldn't know who he is, where he is, what he's doing even if by some chance he ever came out of this coma. Why wait and see if he'd die of Alzheimer's? But...Denny. Whilst he's intact, in limbo, there's hope. Alan's fingers hover over turning that off.

Palmer takes his hand as he stands by the bed. The doctor grimaces.

“Could you give me a moment?” he asks the doctor coldly. He softens it for Palmer with a look and a touch on the back.

When they leave, Denny fills the room. All the fun they've ever had. Their wedding by the lake, their time in the Dude Ranch, Denny's wedding, the evenings on the balcony, the games in court, the sleepovers.

“It wasn't the mad cow.” he remarks to Denny. If Denny were watching him, he'd shrug expansively and reprimand him for not shooting him. Or tell him that he was sorry not to have gone in bed. Or have completely surprised him, either with something sick or something deep.

He strokes Denny's hair, alarmed at himself for taking that liberty. He'd never done that before. That wasn't what they did. He strokes it again, coarse grey grey strands, a clammy oily head. It's Denny. The physicality of him. Alan wishes he could get his body closer to him. Somehow press the whole of the great man into his heart where he can keep him, at his best, forever.

“I love you.” he says, wishing that he could burn the words into Denny's soul. Make him feel it once, for all time. He knows Denny knows this, but it doesn't help. He wants him to know it again. He presses a kiss to Denny's forehead.

“We'll always be flamingos.” he says, gripping Denny's hand.

His hand hovers over the switch on the ventilator, and he feels queasy. He heads to the door and calls Palmer in. Palmer holds him tightly, occasionally kissing his temple as they turn of the ventilator and watch the lines on the monitors flatten.

“Stay with me tonight?” asks Alan.

Palmer holds him all night. Alan tries to feel warm as Palmer kisses the back of his neck and caresses his arms and chest. He just feels empty without Denny.

Denny would have liked the funeral. It is very Denny. The church hall is light and airy, the sun beaming in and making the colours in the flowers pop out. There are dancing girls, much to Shirley's disgust, and women in bikinis handing out glasses of scotch and cigars. There is a feeling of celebration and it almost breaks Alan's heart. He doesn't want to celebrate Denny's life and legacy, he doesn't want to rejoice in the fact that he doesn't have to see his friend's decline any further. He just wishes that Denny were here beside him.

Everyone cries at the funeral, smiling at the funny stories that are just...so Denny. Nobody comes to shake his hand or intrude upon his reverie. Alan just sits there, at the front of the church, eyes fixed on the photos of Denny.

Palmer sits beside him, the unmistakeable scent of scotch on his breath and from the glass. He's been crying. Alan isn't ready to cry yet. Every day since Denny died he's felt closer to crying and a little less alive. He can't even begin to feel that pain. If he lets it ravage him, it will break him. He drinks scotch too, toying with an unlit cigar. Even the scotch tastes muted. His throat is dry from a suppressed desire to howl his agony to the universe.

“I can't believe the old guy's gone.”

“Neither can I.”

Then more stillness.

“Don't leave me.” says Alan, not looking up from his whiskey.

Palmer laces his fingers with Alan's.

“You're stuck with me,” say Palmer softly, and rubs Alan's hand with his thumb, “that's what you are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Am not American, and this wasn't beta'd.
> 
> If you notice things wrong with it, that's why. :)


End file.
